Notice
by Jane Lane
Summary: Justifying existence after the war is hard.


Author's Notes: This is my first Harry Potter fanfic. I got bitten by a bunny that wouldn't go away. I imagine Hermione as having grown up and become a professor herself at Hogwarts, and shortly thereafter, The War begins.  
  
Notice  
  
She can't sleep at night anymore.  
This doesn't bother her even half as much as it bothers those around her. They see the dark circles under her eyes, the candlelight flickering from under her door at all hours of the night. They worry about her, but she tells them she's fine.  
She likes not sleeping at night.  
Her job doesn't suffer. She is still able to get up each day and teach. The students adore her, and none of them seem to notice that their favorite professor hasn't slept properly in months.  
She isn't crabby, or distant, or muddy in her thoughts or speech. Indeed, she's quite alert, her usual tongue-in-cheek self. She does manage to sleep a few hours each night toward morning, falling asleep just as the gray of the dawn starts to creep into the blackness of the night.  
Nobody quite knows why she doesn't sleep anymore, although they all assume it has something to do with the ever-increasing number of those lost to The War. Not the war, but The War.  
It does and it doesn't.  
Nobody quite knows why she doesn't sleep, and everybody worries.  
Nobody worries about why *he's* not sleeping.  
  
It's cold in the castle. It always is. Even on the hottest summer day, the stones are always cool to the touch, and she suspects they are spelled somehow. She wanders the halls tonight because she has finished working her way through her latest book and she has no papers to grade. So she walks and sings softly to herself, a song that she's sure no one would recognize. She likes obscure music.  
She doesn't realize she's not alone until her follower's shadow falls across the far wall, cast there by a dim torch at the corner of a hallway. She doesn't gasp or jump or whirl around though. She doesn't appear surprised at all.  
"Insomnia, Professor?" he asks without inflection.  
She turns and leans against the wall. "Not particularly, Professor," she replies with a hint of a smile.  
He raises an eyebrow, his mouth a hard line. "I can't imagine why else you'd wander the halls at this hour."  
She cocks her head to one side. "Nor I you, Professor."  
They call each other that, "Professor". Never first names, never last names.  
"You don't sleep," he tells her unnecessarily. She shakes her head.  
"No, not much. Not anymore."  
He doesn't ask her why. He thinks that would be prying, and as he's a private person himself, he extends that courtesy toward others as well. Instead, his eyes sharpen just a bit and he furrows his brow in that thoughtful way he always does. "Would you like to?"  
She thinks for a moment and her mouth twists into a wry smile. "I don't think so, no, thank you."  
He gives a perfunctory nod. "Very well."  
They stare at each other for a bit, and then she breaks protocol. "I would like company, however."  
They have been having this conversation each night for the past three weeks, just that way. The first night, she was surprised to find him there. The next, she was mildly annoyed. Thereafter, she was comforted. Alone and not alone, all at the same time. Just what she'd wanted. She thought that he probably knew that somehow, though she couldn't guess why or how.  
They always say the same things, and he always asks if she'd like to sleep, and she always says no, and they always bid each other goodnight then. And she continues to walk and he continues to follow until morning comes and she goes back up to her rooms and he goes back down to his.  
She has never asked him to stay.  
He has never dared hope she would.  
He doesn't say anything but merely nods again, formally, somehow, and takes the few steps forward to walk next to her instead of behind. They walk for an hour in silence. This would bother most people. It doesn't bother either one of them.  
She relishes the silence. All day, she hears people talking to her, talking *at* her, needing things from her or entertaining her or discussing with her, and while she loves it here, loves her job, loves the people, it is tiring, and they tend to talk a little too loudly.  
He is used to the silence. Unless it is absolutely necessary, no one talks to him. He rather likes it that way, mostly, and he prefers to keep to himself in his free time. So silence doesn't feel oppressive to him. Instead, it feels almost warm and light. No one talks to him unless it is necessary, and he tells himself that this is what he wants.  
"They're children," she says suddenly, as they are midway up the fourth staircase on the left, the one with the portrait of the unicorn that always whinnies as if disturbed. She says it and then she stops walking.  
He still keeps silent. Truth be told, he doesn't quite know what to say and this is not a position in which he finds himself often. He looks at her and waits.  
"They're children, and we aren't. And we're still here."  
Ah. "And they aren't," he says. She looks up at him, and although she is tall, she still has to tilt her head up a bit to see his face. Then her eyes begin to fill and the image of him swims in front of her and she turns away, embarrassed.  
"I didn't mean to."  
He isn't sure what it was she hadn't meant to do. Cry? Confide in him? She goes on. "You've enough to think about."  
"You think those thoughts are yours alone?" he asks and it comes out more sharply than he'd intended, but then, that is his nature, wasn't it?  
She doesn't appear offended. "No," she whispers. "I suppose they aren't."  
He watches her for a moment and sighs. "I have long since learned that guilt does not have any value in matters such as these. Especially." he pauses to choose just the right word, "ill-ascribed guilt."  
She hasn't cried in years. She is surprised when she starts to. "I can't keep letting them go," she chokes into her hands, covering her face in a futile attempt to conceal her tears. "I can't let them go."  
He closes his eyes for a beat. "Then keep them," he replies. She drops her hands, wet streaks on her cheeks, her lip trembling, surprised at his response. He speaks again. "Keep them always, keep them *here*," he says, placing his hand on his chest, over his heart.  
She puts her own hand over her mouth to hold back the scream that she thinks might burst forth at any moment.  
Nobody has ever come to him for comfort, and so he is not quite sure how to give it, and he thinks maybe, just maybe, he has said the entirely *wrong* thing when he sees her reaction. But then she's flinging herself forward, into him, her hands gripping the folds of his robes, her weeping muffled. He can feel her breath, hot even through the layers of cloth, each time she chokes out a sob, and he can feel her trembling with exhaustion and emotion.  
He thinks it shouldn't feel pleasant to have someone against him like this, but it is a trivial thought that leaves almost before it arrives. He folds his arms around her and finds that her head just fits neatly under his chin.  
She sags against him and tightens her grip when she feels his arms come up and hold her to him. "I'm so tired," she manages to say, and when she takes a breath, she notices he smells of lavender and cloves.  
He strokes her long hair and says, "You don't sleep."  
She smiles through her tears. He can hear the smile as she says, "No, not really. Not anymore."  
"Would you like to?"  
She nods, cheek sliding against the vaguely scratchy wool of his robe. "Yes, please."  
He walks her up to her rooms, politely stepping back as she murmurs the words to unlock her door. Her rooms are cozy, homey, in stark contrast to his. The only similarities are the fireplace, burning lazily, and the piles of books, everywhere but stacked neatly. He walks her to the bed and pulls back the coverlet, slips off her shoes, guides her head to the pillow. She gives a weary, soul-deep sigh, and her eyes are pleading as she stares up at him.  
"I'd still like company," she says, already half-asleep.  
A nod, but not the quick, formal one this time. "Very well." He sits down on the edge of the bed and starts just a bit as she reaches out and takes his hand and holds it to her.  
"Keep them here," she murmurs, eyes closed. "Keep them here always." And then she is asleep, breathing deeply and evenly, and he can feel each breath beneath his hand. Gingerly, he slips his hand from hers and summons a chair from the corner of the room, setting it down next to the bed.  
"Goodnight, Professor," he whispers and, before he can think, before he can analyze and second-guess and think *better* of it, leans forward to press a kiss to her forehead.  
He sits down in the chair, and the next day, everyone says how much better she looks and nobody worries anymore and nobody asks him why he hasn't slept.  
He sees her at dinnertime and almost smiles when she says, "You don't sleep."  
"Not anymore," he replies, fudging the line a bit but still within a respectable frame.  
"Would you like to?"  
He hasn't had a true friend before. He does let himself smile this time, just a little, just for a moment, because what would it hurt if someone saw him smile, just this once?  
Nobody notices. 


End file.
